Father

When the psychiatrist asked him to recollect his oldest memory, specifically that one came to mind. In the big hallway of their apartment, conveniently transformed into a room. On the couch, in his father's arms. Pale light. Must be less then 3 years old, before their divorce. He's curious, like any other child, constantly moving. Wants to see where and why that sound comes from. When he finally manages to turn around he sees his mother sitting on a chair. Palms covering her face. Crying...

They were supposed to go to the movies together. Like any other Sunday morning. Early show. Cheaper. They could walk home afterwards and talk their own puberty stuff. Their colleagues called them gay, though the term was not really clear in his mind back then. His friend told him to come up to his apartment as he wasn't ready. He wasn't the paying a visit type, so he felt a bit uncertain about that, but there was nothing to do downstairs. A big man opened the door and by calling his name invited him in. Shook his hand, like men do. Told him his friend is just ready dressing up. While they were putting their shoes back on the big man asked his son if he needs pocket money. The son said no, but the big man gave him some anyway. Told them to have a juice or something, to have fun but to be careful. On their way down, in the elevator he told himself that this must be having a father...

He was running as fast as he was able to after he punched that kid in the face. There was just as much one could take from all the bullies. But the other man had bigger steps and lungs so he caught up with him easily. He felt grabbed by the back of his neck. Something cracked. Then the man starting slapping him while shouting: Touch my son again and i'll kill you. His attempts to tell his side of the story, that he was merely defending himself, were drowned in the blood he started to feel in his mouth...

That sentence she told him once got stuck in his head forever: He would have been your son from the very beginning if you would have wanted to...

When she saw him coming home crying and bleeding again her heart broke. She took him to the bathroom and cleaned him up. He was still shacking. Trying to explain something. But she didn't have time to listen. This was about to become one tough life lesson for her son. "Look, i can't protect you anymore. I am just a woman. You have to understand that you are not like the other kids. You don't have a father to protect you. And obviously you are not strong enough to defend yourself. So you have a choice: you either continue to go out but if you get bullied you don't come home crying, or you stay home where you're safe." Next day he made friends with a book...

I must have been 2 or 3 years old. Probably playing. Most likely following familiar people through the house. I remember getting into the bathroom with my father. He was urinating. He was not a big man, but looking from bellow he looked like giant to me. Most striking was his penis. Seemed enormous. I heard he knew how to use too. Two other things i haven't inherited from him...

... So what? You want me to stay here for you? To fulfill your dreams? Meaning what, that you've found a young girl and now you want to get married and have children or what? What? ...

He once told her one of his greatest fears. He was afraid that when the child will be born she will shift her love towards the child and he will feel abandoned. He feared that either he will do the same and thus their relationship will die, or that he will start hating the child. He was probably looking for some reassurance their love will not suffer because of a child, but it will grow stronger. Instead she was horrified. What kind of father hates his unborn child already?...

He doesn't want to have kids. He just doesn't. Did you know that? Well, yes, he told me that before we got married. But i've always hoped that was the young blood speaking. That in time it will change. Well, men are not really like that. Well, i see that now, but it's a problem. Why? Because i love being with him and our life together but i want to have children. Hmm. I have something to ask you. Please. If he will not come around by the time i'm 30 i will get a divorce. You want me to be your lawyer? No, i want you to be the father of my child...

Sex. Love. Love. Sex.

After she gave me her virginity, a fair trade with mine, I have asked:
- Why did you choose doing this with me and not with some guy you liked?
- Because you loved me, was her answer...

The bathroom seems like a pagan temple lit by candles. The bathtub is the holy altar, where the High Priestess performs her duties. She is down on all fours moaning something that seems like a chant. A mantra. Behind her, down on my knees i rhythmically  pomp myself into her. With every move the water ripples. Hate that damn noise. Doesn't let me focus. Doesn't let me complete this ancient ceremony. So i am doing it harder, and harder. And with each hard move i hear another sound. A hollow sound. The sound of her head banging on the bathtub. She's moaning in pleasure while banging her head on the metal wall:Don't stop, don't stop!

During our first crisis i said those words that still cause my amazement: How can we broke up? I love you the most and i haven't even made love to you...

After his mutilation she was really eager. Their connection was fading already and the physical pause was too much for a woman her age. Thus when he arrived she didn't wait for him to initiate things as she usually did. That would have taken too long. No. This time she jumped on him, ripping his cloths off, offering her full of desire body to him. She wanted to do it there, at the door, while standing. A quick hard romp. But he was under some sort of shock and was only half answering to her urge... A bit disappointed they moved on the bed, hoping that a more relaxed environment and cooling things down will help with his demeanor. To be more convincing, she went down on him for some oral arguments. Half an hour later, she raised her head in disappointment and loudly stated that he doesn't love her anymore. His answer was harsh in its honesty. I still love you, i just don't feel anything down there anymore. Relieved by his explanation, free of her guilt, she replied: Then why did you let me struggle for half an hour? For hope that i will...

The sad truth is that not any woman knows how to deal with a circumcised man...

 She just finished wiping his seed off her chest when the phone rang. Seeing the name on the screen she placed her finger on her lips signaling him not to make a sound. Hi, honey, she answered. From across the country her husband was suspicious that she's having an affair. Which of course she wasn't. Everything was in his jealous little head. Maybe he was having one and had a guilty conscience. Or he was getting paranoid. Relationships are based on trust. He needed to trust her to make it work. She loved him and wouldn't do anything to hurt him. Meanwhile the man in her bed was biting the pillow to prevent himself for laughing out loud. He knew she loves him and couldn't believe what an idiot the other man was to buy all those cliches. Three weeks later she left the both for a third one.

Casual drink among colleagues after work. The usual out of boredom flirts. One glass of wine, a joke, a gossip, a laughter. Eyes that shortly meet eyes. Then another glass. Good music. The others are leaving home. We should leave too, we have work tomorrow. Why, it's still early, how bout we get a bottle of wine and go to your place. Chat some more or watch a movie. Said and done. More wine. Couch is comfy. She touches him for the first time. Grabs his hand. Looks him again in the eye. Time for a kiss he presumes. Said and done. Then the usual routine for such cases. Accelerated breath. A dance of the tongues. One leads, one follows. Hand feeling through the cloths before removing them. Squeezing here, rubbing there, her hand shaking his member in fury. In 15 min his penis is covered in nail wounds. Hurting like hell. Hiding back within his body. Any trace of desire he had it is now gone. What the fuck she says. Don't you wanna do this? Actually i do. So what's the problem, don't you like me? No, it's not that. Then what is it, this is frustrating. She's right. It is. He would actually scream his frustration but all he wants is to see her gone. Pours another glass and tells her i think i had too much to drink... Maybe you should go home. We have work tomorrow. Sad and down.

The first time they got naked together they were young, pure and unaware. She noticed that hard appendix of his, raised up, tensed, begging for attention. She started playing with it, gently rubbing it up and down. While his pleasure was increasing, leading to the awaited explosion, his back arched and his breath accelerated. She didn't stop. Warm waves came out of him, sprinkling out of that flesh fountain. The seed spread all over him. She screamed and jumped up. Scared by his physical reaction. Terrified by his burning orgasm. Eyes wide opened, fixating those sticky stains. While she tried to deal with the reality of masculinity, he tried to deal her horror and disgust. Could you please bring me some tissues some i can clean my self up? She didn't move...

Their desire is desperate. She wants it. She wants it bad. He feels guilty. I could solve you easily he says. I don't want it like that she says. They separate from their embrace.

Waiter brings their coffees. The two women stop their conversation for a second and wait for him to leave. When he's gone, the younger one resumes. So what are you going to do? I'm gonna break up with him. But you said he loves you. He does, but that's not enough. He's lame in bed, doesn't know what to do with me. He will learn. No, he won't. What is exactly that he doesn't do? What is exactly that you want and don't get? I want to be fucked! Hard! I want him to grab me and fuck the brains out of me. To push me towards the wall, to throw me on the floor and force himself into me. To fuck me long and brutal. Like a man. He loves me and respects me. Thus he will never be able to do that. Love is an impediment to good sex. Check please.

"...- So?
- She told me once she always had good sex. Always. When I've asked her how is that even possible she told me she was lucky. Well, her luck ran out with me...
- Why do you think so?
- Because it was bad. Not for me (for me was great), but for her. It was quick (usual excuses: long break, too much desire), i refused her the pose she wanted, we didn't repeat it, didn't discuss it, three days later she broke up with me. Trust me. She didn't get good sex from me.
- Well, i don't know that for sure and neither do you. But what i do know is that she did get a lot of love..."

Love

It's too easy to empty a heart... How do you cover the cracks? How do you fill it back in?

Love must have a liquid form, a chemical structure. It pours. Takes the shape of its container. Occupies all. Interacts with all. Reaches most hidden places. And when cracks appear, it drains. It dries. The container dehydrates. Some just heal instantly, probably having a sort of sewage or drainage they control. Some use patches and plugs to stop the leakage. Some just dry dead.

It's hard to preserve self esteem when you're not even worthy of one hug...

When he first arrived at the scene the thing that struck him the most was the perfect order. Everything was in its place, perfectly categorized, arranged, inventoried. Carpet and floor were stainless. Walls as white as in a mental facility. Furniture dusted and waxed. Recently, judging by its reflection. The bed was done, and bathroom was perfumed. Out on the back terrace, lied the corpse. Out of it came one arrow. He ripped it out of his chest and checked the puncture wound. He trusted his forensic officer to clarify the situation. But the answer couldn't be written in the official report: This man died out of love...

The captain read the next day that an archer inflicted wound was the cause of death. The shooter was unknown and investigation was still on going, following several leads.

People need to make sense out of love. Being out of control scares them after a while. They decide they're better off without it. Love is a beast that must be contained. A pet that must be leashed or tamed.

For what they're concerned people leave you for two reasons: you love them too much or you don't love them at all. For what you're concerned they leave you also for two reasons: they didn't love you.

Snow. Carols. Santa. Trees. Holidays. Trips. Gifts. Family. Couple. Each season we are under constant attack from those promoting coupling, love, the beauty and advantages of a relationship. And each season the suicide rate increases in this period. Love is a pagan God demanding human sacrifices. Blood. Those who have it worship it and sacrifice to it. Those who don't suffer in its absence. Wish it and welcome it. Offer themselves on its altar. For businessmen, love is money. For undertakers it's a business with repetition. No one appreciates love and sensitive holidays more than funeral homes' owners...

Love cannot be explained. If it can, it's not love. It is a feeling which originates from beyond reason. You love somebody because you just do, and due to your love that person is beautiful, smart, funny, shelter. You see all flows and love that person even more. And despite all these, when love is gone, we seek for an explanation. We need to understand the end.

Hearts, brains and genitals are muscles. They can be trained. With a sufficient amount of exercise one can last longer: at the Olympics, at work, in bed. Love is the opposite. The more you try it, the less it feels.

Love is a perfume. In time, no matter how often you use it, it wears off.

When he woke up in the morning she was awake, but pretended not to be. Kept her eyes closed and accepted his kiss. Waited till he went to the bathroom. Listened to all the liquid sounds he made. Peeing. Flushing. Washing. At the sound of the shower she sat up on the bed. The memory of the last night when their bodies screamed for one another was still present. His body screamed loud but quick. Probably in time the eager beast could be tamed. But it was not her to do the job. She gently touched her intimate parts. The thought of him curiously made her wet. Slowly rubbing her fingers she dried the last remains of his love fluids coming out of her. She intended to take a shower as well, but realized that the only thing she wanted to do was to go home as soon as possible. While she got dressed love was vaporizing, turning into thin air, going back into the circuit. Tomorrow there will be another man she will wake up with. Perhaps another woman will wait for him to finish his shower...

Pictures

I wish i could capture music in a picture.

That tree was literally crying, bending down to the ground. The desert around it was overwhelming. Its solitude absolute. Its tears, solidified leaves. Sun cruelly standing still up in the sky. Our broken car was taking a warm rest on the side of the road. Help was probably on its way. While looking for a trace of a shadow a voice said: I know why that tree is crying. Someone died on it. That branch is perfect for hanging. Judging by her gaze that must have been my voice.

Help was still on its way.

Two lights speeding towards each-other. Like car games for children. Their white is perfect camouflage in the sunshine. Blinding windows. Inner explosions. Sounds of air attacks. They almost kiss in the parking lot. Doors open and they are running towards one another. It's like a reunion. A bloodied body is taken out on a stretcher. They try to push life into it through electrical wires. Blood slowly drips down in dust. The woman's angel flaps its wings desperately while electrocuted. She is in horror. The tree is still crying. Sun still cruel. Got a pulse someone shouts. They smuggle the reanimated bleeding body in the other car. Both take off in full speed and disappear over the hill. This picture was better in silence. Blood blackens while drying.

Where is the delete button?

Whenever i had a nose bleed or i would cut my finger i would drink my own blood and pretend to be a vampire. My mom said that drinking your own blood is a Jewish thing. She didn't say if it was good or bad. I've heard there are people who do that with their own sperm.

How do you put smell in a picture?

That day, in the garden of the memorial house I've smelled the wild roses. They were pink and resembled a mild death. I understood why he wrote those poems. A similar wild rose was growing inside of him. He probably inhaled one seed while dozing off in the shadow of that big tree.

How does an electrocuted angel smell?

She breaths heavily and stares into my eyes. Her lips are slightly open. Pupils dilated. Waiting to be ravished. I try to stop the beast that grows within me. Will is so strong i could tear her apart and feed with her flesh. How do you put desire in a picture? My blood is pulsating and i get numb. Dizzy. I feel all. I see all. I understand all. I am desire and death. She is an angel praying to be electrocuted. We kiss. We embrace. We touch. We collide. We die. We resurrect. We separate.

How do you infuse life into a picture? It's why they've invented the video-camera...

In 19th century people were taking pictures of their dead beloved ones. Sitting them on chairs or lying on their dying beds they were photographed as if they were sleeping. Their eternal sleep captured for eternity. (E)motionless. Before the first fist of sand fell on their coffins. A picture is an eternal memory of something that just ceased to exist.

Memory is a graveyard. Images of the past are tombstones.

 When the sun exhausted its fire help arrived. Towed us to the big city. They fixed the car in 12 minutes. One hour later we checked in the hotel. When diving into the salty blue water all the dust, the blood and the sunburn washed away. Saw her perky breasts facing the waves. Felt the warm embrace of the sea. Heard the sound of its furious passion. Left my self float. Liberated for a moment. Closed eyes.

To dream or to forget reality it's pretty much the same....

Same time next week?

Late. Dark night. Window shades. Outside, wind howling. Sometimes a car passes by. Shadows move slowly on the ceiling. It's warm. Unbreathable. Struggle to sleep. T-shirt stuck to skin. Sweaty. Knocking. Slightly. But persistent. Door lugged. Eyes staring. No smile. No words. Just a nervous tic with her tip toes. You're back. Nodding. Invites her in. Nothing else said.

Heavy rain. The Church looks gloomy. From behind plastic restaurant windows people stare. Rapid steps. And that water keeps pouring from the merciless sky. Eager and restless. Hopes. Familiar face. Whispered hello. Why don't you come in. It's horrible here. She knows. Nods. I'm waiting. The familiar face smiles. Understood. Small rubbing on the wrist. Good luck. The wind changes direction.

Finally sleeping. Exhaustion. Mental exhaustion mostly. Sounds from the lounge. Bottles. Laughter. Even sound of smoking. Inhaling, exhaling. Singing. It's life coming from far away. Waking up confused. Knock on the door can mean only one thing. Grabs the handle. She wants to say something. You're back. Nothing else matters.

Giggles. Children play in the park. Watches over them. Like a guardian angel. An angel with an iPhone. Checks the hour every two minutes. Not a single cloud on the sky. But the pressure. The burden. One day earlier sounded like a stranger. A stranger's voice. Already. But who's the actual stranger? Promise is a promise. And... What time it is? Gosh... Maybe should call this thing off. Beeping sound. I'm running a little late. 10 minutes tops. Taxi just came. Don't take it. Busy. Change of plans. Maybe later. Safer never. More and more excuses. Yeah, OK, i got it. Whatever. From across the city hear the disappointment. Anger thoughts. But it's better this way. Children still play. Why do you cry?

Knock on the door. Opens. The look is there. Smiles like nothing ever happened. May i come in? Steps aside.

Hey. Hey. Why? That's why. Still? Apparently. Pathetic. Maybe. Obsession. Yes. Not the type you think. But you go on doing this to yourself. I don't get it. I'm afraid to forget. Forget! You'll move on. Everybody does. It's the easy way out. I don't want that. I want to remember. It's already starting to fade away and it scares the hell out of me. How come? It's all i have left. But this way you'll keep on hurting. No. Hurting is to know you are not even a memory. Terrible fate. But won't let those cared about share it. Loser, you just need better memories.

Knock. Feels real this time. Heart pumping. Leaning on the morning wall gets slowly to the door. Grabs the handle. Takes deep breath. Opens. No one is there. Definitely real. Wakes up in sorrow. Sun blinding. City in bloom. Even dreams lost hope.

Smiles. She smiles back. How do you feel today? Fine. School? Fine. Colleagues? Fine. Mother? Fine. Novelties? No. Not really. Same all. Read a book. Good one? OK. A bit sad. About? Yes. How about? What about? Any dreams lately? No. They're gone. All gone. How does that make you feel? Fine. Give it some more time and it will be ok. OK. Smiles again. Same time next week?

Baricco's Emmaus

Road to Emmaus. Two people walk towards the city discussing the recent events in Jerusalem. A man approaches them for companion. He is amazed by their story, they are amazed by his ignorance. Jesus was captured. Jesus was killed on a cross. Jesus was buried and according to few witnesses he is resurrected. Alive. Again. When they reach Emmaus they invite their new acquaintance to dinner. When the man blessed the bread, they realize that the one standing at the same table with them is Jesus Himself. The moment He is recognized, Jesus disappears. no explanations given.

The most salient thing is the fact that in this story, no one seems to know anything. The starting point is complete ignorance. The two main characters discuss rumors. They mostly guess what happened based on the only known fact: Jesus was dead. Then it seems that not even Jesus is aware of the whole story. He listens to it like he wasn't its subject. The fact that He died and came back to life is a surprise even for Him. Then the veil lifting, at the dinner: when He blessed the bread, that's when they finally recognized Him. The mystery revealed, Jesus disappears. Makes you wonder if He was ever there and if the revelation wasn't more than a result of the thought.

This short interesting story is the starting point of Baricco's novel. Four youngsters, Catholics, believers, raised and educated within the Church's guidelines, virgins, struggle with the fascination for a liberated woman and with sexual desire. Their fantasy develops to the point where they are all sexually initiated by her in a sort of orgy. They then have to face the consequences of their acts and assume responsibility: one becomes a drug addict, one impregnates the girl, another one commits suicide thinking he's the one who impregnated the girl and the fourth one lives to tell the story.

But the book is not solely about the above story line. That orgy is quick, strange, weird, and disappears as fast as Jesus after being recognized. No, the book is actually about the road to Emmaus. About the guess. The figuring it all out. These youngsters don't know. Don't know anything. They just anticipate, talk about things they've only heard of. Women. Sex. Initiation. Adulthood. The transition is simple, unanticipated, quick. And instead of really answering their questions, it leaves them with even more. Some of them cannot even deal with its consequences. Knowing, finally knowing, brings an incredible burden and causes an incredible turn of events.

Another interesting fact is the meditation on the initiation. People shouldn't just make assumptions. Should be warned. Their families left them unprepared. Their education is more of a barrier than a mean of understanding. The woman who gave herself to all of them assumes that they all got it, that their sexual encounter meant nothing more than that. And she also assumes it's all out in the open, that in any case, the boys will come and ask if something is not clear. No one even considers the inner torment, the inner thought.

Appearances are as always deceiving. In the Emmaus story, Jesus doesn't appear to be Jesus. Nothing gives Him up: he's ignorant, curious, doesn't even look like Himself. The same in Baricco's story. The Saint, isn't really the holy one. The supposed suicidal father has no such thoughts. Quite the opposite. The good son ends up killing himself, hurting everybody around him because he assumes some facts to be true when they aren't. Even sexual initiation is something different than it is supposed to be: quick, dirty, strange, feelings free.

The story teller has seen his own Jesus. He now knows. He grew up. No notification given. What next? No one knows. He is just aware that something happened, that something is forever lost. As Jesus didn't stick around to explain to his companions what they have just witnessed it is their own job to find that sense. And that's the whole point of the story: experiences are given, they happen, but their meaning is something that is only ours to find.